


Hunger

by Hezjena2023



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon)
Genre: Character Study - Striga, F/F, Femslash, Just two vampires being happy and in love, Never leave a historian alone writing smut, Non-Canonical Lore, Oneshot, Oral Sex, Porn Without Plot, Self-Indulgent, Smut, Striga is a Norsewoman, Worldbuilding?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:27:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24843787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hezjena2023/pseuds/Hezjena2023
Summary: Striga ran her tongue over her teeth, finding and feeling the dagger-like point of her sharpened canine, drawing up a bubble of blood to taste. The sharp, sweet taste of eternity that now felt bitter in her mouth, as vampiric blood could no longer sustain her. She’d always been chasing it, a fruitless task to recreate the first moment of her turning. It had stung like a bee-sting, taken like a stolen bite from Iðunn’s golden apple.***Snippet from Striga and Morana's relationship, set a couple of days before Carmilla returns in Season Three.
Relationships: Morana/Striga (Castlevania)
Kudos: 43





	Hunger

Striga ran her tongue over her teeth, finding and feeling the dagger-like point of her sharpened canine. Feeling a sense of uneasy creep across her skin. She sat on a bench, curling her knee towards her chest and leaning back against the eggshell-white brick of the castle. 

She was a strategist, she knew she should prepare for every alternative _-_ her canine pierced her tongue, drawing up a bubble of blood to taste. The sharp, sweet taste of eternity that now felt bitter in her mouth, as vampiric blood could no longer sustain her. 

She sighed. She’d always been chasing it, a fruitless task to recreate the first moment of her turning. It had stung like a bee-sting, taken like a stolen bite from Iðunn’s golden apple. A gift given to her under the high wood beamed ceiling when the guþi splattered her sire’s blood across the statues of her gods and unto the faces of the worshipers. She could guess that her sire had been sacrificed before they could ever meet as their connection was served before it had ever formed. Only the poison blood survived, enduring and collected and given during the blót. 

Without a guide she grew sicker, burning cruelly under the sun, wasting away as food turning to ash in her mouth. Even with her first taste of immortality lingering on her tongue, she thought she was the only one of her kind, until she stepped foot on Styria. 

Two bright yellow eyes peered at her from the undergrowth of a raised flower bed to her left. The night-blooming flowers filled the little garden up with an intoxicating floral scent that hung thick as perfume attracting delicate-winged moths to feast upon the nectar. From the foliage, a fluffy grey body jumped up, paws swiping in the air to try to catch one of the moths. 

“Poor hunting tonight, Köttr?” Striga asked indulgently, as the large cat sulked over to her bench for head scratches. Purring lightly, as he rubbed his body against Striga’s legs and interweaved himself around her ankles before shooting off again, a blur of white and grey, into the undergrowth. 

The garden had been Morana’s homesick indulgence, the small square courtyard transformed into a night-blooming garden. Complete with archways that were strung with ivy and delicate hanging flowers, their roots digging deep into the brickwork. Quite the feat in the snow-capped mountains, but Morana was nothing if not determined. And, as Morana had argued, if Carmilla could have her heated bathhouse, Morana wanted a garden. The design of the little square had been her own, a memory memorialised. 

In the centre was a fountain that was fed with snowmelt, it kept the plants watered and provided the sound of a gentle background trickling. To keep it warm, the whole area was covered over by a diamond grid of glass to trap in what little sun dared to shine during the day. 

She tilted her head back against a column of a free standing arch, feeling the little wound on her tongue heal. Tonight the moon was bright, unadulterated by clouds and hanging lazily in the inky black sky, just a sliver from full. The stars glimmered in the inky abyss. 

When she looked down, Morana was stood by the fountain, her back to Striga. Loose brown curls spilled down her back, a golden silk shawl hanging loosely from her shoulders. She was watching the water bubbling out from the slab like structure in the centre and spilling over the edges, her hand outstretched but not touching the cool liquid. 

Striga’s breath caught in her throat, the almost silent sound still loud enough to alert her lover to her presence. Seeing her turn, Striga ached for her touch. 

Morana glanced back, and purred a question, “so this is where you have been hiding, my darling?”

In response, she stiffened, but only a little, “I am hardly hiding.” She replied, tasting the lie like blood on her tongue. Sharp and sweet and bitter, all at once. 

She weaved an indirect way through the garden, hummed as she considered the answer, before darting forward, flying the last twelve feet to come to a sudden stop, with barely a breath between them. 

Morana’s palm was splayed against the cool stone column by the side of Striga’s face, “that is why you missed dinner? A beautiful young thing, tart and tasting of redcurrants?” With her free hand she moved her curls from her back to all come forward over one shoulder, showing off the curve of her neck. 

Striga wondered if the blood would linger in her mouth, if she could solicit a taste just by kissing her. A hunger uncoiled in Striga that had nothing to do with blood or apples. Craved it like her first taste of blood, but deeper, something more primal. The hunger was ancient; older than her, than vampires, than fire. So she said nothing, just pressed her lips solemnly to the underside of Morana’s wrist. 

Morana uncurled her hand from the brickwork, and dropped it to Striga’s cheek, she brushed the line up from her cheekbone and encircled her pointed ear. 

If she still had a human pulse it would be hammering in her ears. Striga shivered, a sound escaping her throat. She was close enough that Striga was quite sure she could see her own desire reflected back in the blue-lilac of Morana’s eyes, the same hunger hidden just below the surface. 

Morana’s hand dropped away from Striga’s face, dripped down her neck and she pulled back Striga’s hawk feather cloak and placed a small kiss against the curve of Striga’s collarbone. She folded it and laid the cloak down on the stone bench where Striga had been sat. Idly Morana’s painted nails traced out a pattern, mimicking the cursive script of her native tongue. With her head buried in the crook of Striga’s neck, Morana asked. “You’re worried about her, aren’t you?”

“She should have been back days ago.” 

“You know Carmilla,” Morana chuckled, the sound reverberating across Striga’s chest. 

Morana smelt of the jasmine oil that she brushed through her hair, sweet and floral. It encircled her as though Striga were the central piece on a Hnefatafl board, captured and enraptured with no chance or wish to escape. 

“A pretty jewel will have caught her eye and she will have diverted for some reason that will make no sense, until she explains it slowly and then it will make perfect sense.” 

“You have so much faith in her, dýr.” Stiga replied gently. She took Morana’s slight hand in hers, threading Morana’s slim fingers through her own. The weeks after she had been turned, Striga had been terrorised by growing pains as her body stretching out as though she’d been born instead in Jǫtunheimr. 

“Mmm,” Morana agreed lazily, “she’ll be back.” Her bottom lip poked out into a pout, as she looked up at Striga, her eyes scorching, “now, do try not to worry for her.”

Striga breathed, her focus wholly stolen by the curve of Morana’s pouting lip, she leant towards her, capturing it with a kiss, then pulled back barely more than an inch, her eyes darting around behind Morana. “And what about Lenore?”

“She knows not to disturb us in the gardens,” 

Striga breathed, her sharpened canines grazed Morana’s lip as she hungrily deepened the kiss, her tongue soft as velvet. 

Morana’s shawl slipped to the floor, pooling in a puddle of liquid gold at her feet, as she turned face Striga, blindly unfastening the falcon-faced paldron and gently laying the embellished piece of armour on the stone bench. Morana pressed closer to Striga, moving onto her knees so she could draw level with the taller woman. 

Breaking the kiss, as she noted the breathless heave of Morana’s chest, the way her cheeks are flushed and her lips full. Morana was close enough that Striga could cut herself on the sharp kohl lines that frame Morana’s eyes. With one hand she took her waist, then the other buried in the creased and crumpled cobalt fabric that covered her arse. 

It has been a very long time since Striga last saw the sun, but the warmth of Morana reminds her of it. As it used to be, gentle rays peeking through clouds on a Summer’s day, the way that the light would sometimes catch upon the water and cast kaleidoscope patterns. Like the rainbow, Morana was surely made by the gods, fashioned and formed, “you’re beautiful.” She gasped. 

Morana’s lips spread over her teeth in a self-satisfied, lazy smile. “You think?” 

“You know I do.” 

“Mm.” Morana’s fingers moved slowly towards her jacket, in a line down the centre of her chest there is a row of neat, silk-covered buttons. Without taking her eyes from Striga she popped the first one open, revealing the collar of her shift. 

The only sound was the soft trickle of the fountain as Striga’s breath was held. Morana's shift was loose, the thin material tried to hide the graceful curves of her body. But the night air found Morana’s nipples, hardening them till they peeked through the thin linen. 

Though Striga had seen Morana in every state of undress, in every position, in every light, she would never tire of seeing it. She was giddy, drunk on it. 

With a practised hand Striga reached for the ribbons at the small Morana’s back. Once undone, her skirt loosened around her hips. Striga brought her hand forward, splaying it out over Morana’s belly. While her face dropped to the vampire’s breasts, the cool linen soft against her skin. 

Morana found herself impatient and captured Striga’s chin with her fingers forcing her to look up, she dipped her head. She bit Striga’s lip, gently, a moan filling up her mouth. Morana fingers slid from her chin to her shoulder, wrapping her arms around her neck as she kissed Striga again. Her eyes fluttered closed, a decadent look on her face. 

“I am hungry for you.” Striga confessed. 

Morana’s eyes flashed back open, rather than question the strategist, Morana rubbed her lower lip to try to fix the lip paint that had been so deliciously smudged. 

“Indulge me,” Striga murmured, stretching to whisper in Morana’s ear, “stand on the bench.” 

Morana shivered as the hot breath danced across her skin, “you’re bold tonight.” Her words were soft, as she took Striga’s hand, using her help to stand on the stone bench. 

“You inspire me.” Striga whispered, taking her ankle and slipping off her shoe and letting it fall to the floor. She did the same with the other foot and then tugged lightly at her untied skirt. It slipped down Morana’s legs in a dark blue waterfall, crumpling in a puddle around her. 

Morana stepped out of it, and kicked the fabric to the floor. 

Striga slid her hand under the lace hem of Morana’s light shift, and dragged the edge slowly to the top of Morana’s thigh. Then she pressed her lips against Morana’s calf, and then nuzzled her cheek against her knee. She grazed the spot lightly with her teeth, then swiped it with her tongue and gently blew cold air over the top. 

The arch above them swayed as Morana took a hold of it, her nails digging into the stonework with her inhuman strength. She steadied herself and dislodged some of the hanging flowers. 

As midnight blue petals rained down on them, Striga buried her head between Morana’s legs. Using her hand to guide Morana’s thighs apart. 

Above her, Morana laughed. The thick sound in the back of her throat that turned into a moan as Striga found her already wet. Morana dropped a hand from the arch, knitting it in the back of Striga’s hair and urging her forwards. Her nails scratched needily against Striga’s scalp, even as her hips bucked forward to the flat plane of Striga’s tongue. 

“You taste of reduced currants,” Striga murmured, surprised and delighted, against Morana’s flesh. Redcurrants and apples. She pawed at her, finding that her hands came to rest on either side of Morana’s thighs, the fabric of her dress crushed in Striga’s fingers. And Striga felt every buck and roll of Morana’s hips. She wondered if she could undo Morana with just the ministrations of her tongue, if she could guide her to the edge with licks and sucks. 

When Morana’s legs began to tremble, Striga held her firmly to keep her from toppling and Morana’s fingers dug into the stone as her belly tensed. Her thighs stilled for a few heartbeats, everything went silent as the wave washed over her. She came accompanied with a deafening crack of stone being torn apart. 

Striga grabbed her around the waist and pushed them both, tumbling towards the ground out of the way of the falling pieces of rubble. Striga hit the ground first, sheltering Morana and then rolled them, so Morana was curled on top of her. 

Morana’s hair hung over her face and she laughed breathlessly. Her face was flushed, and she curled into Striga’s side contentedly.

“Mm,” Striga murmured, brushing stray curls from her forehead and rubbing a streak of brick dust off of Morana’s cheek. “It seems that I owe you a new arch.”

Morana propped herself up on her elbows to assess the damage. Pieces of crumbled brickwork littered the area, the archway now little more than a solitary ruined column draped with hanging vines and blue flowers. “I like it,” she decided, happy as Köttr with a plate of milk, “I shall keep it.”

"Adding it to our collection of things that you've broken?" Striga asked, trailing kisses up Morana's neck. 

Morana squirmed a little, still oversensitive, but settled into the lavish care of Striga's tongue after a moment. "I love you.” 

“And I you.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Translations 
> 
> Old Norse  
> Iðunn - Idun, Norse goddess associated with youth and apples  
> guþi - religious leader/priest  
> blót - sacrifice/worship  
> köttr - a tom cat  
> hnefatafl - lit. ‘king’s table’, a board game kind of like chess, but with asymmetrical sides  
> dýr - dear, beloved, loved one
> 
> Note - I’ve never studied Old Norse - I got these translations from a bunch of different sources. I’ve tried to ensure accuracy, but if I’d done something silly with translations. Please, please, let me know. I will happily change them <3


End file.
